


Collision Course

by hashtagartistlife



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Soulmate AU, or is it?! DUN DUN DUN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10076462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hashtagartistlife/pseuds/hashtagartistlife
Summary: 'That’s the definition of a soulmate, isn’t it? One soul, two halves, split between two separate forms. Alike in every respect.'//In a world where people are born with a coloured marking somewhere on their body, your soulmate is supposed to be the one who carries the exact same mark. Kurosaki Ichigo has never put much stock in these things — and the fact that his black sun mark and Rukia’s white crescent moon is as different as night and day has nothing to do with it. Ichiruki maybe-a-soulmates AU.





	1. Gravitational Collapse

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for this years Ichiruki Big Bang, which was hosted at the irbb tumblr [here!](https://ichirukibigbang.tumblr.com) Be sure to check the site out for all the other wonderful contributions throughout the month of march! And [my irbb partner jellyribbons on tumblr](https://jellyribbons.tumblr.com) did [beautiful art for the first chapter,](https://www.jellyribbons.tumblr.com/post/157968249616/theres-a-black-mark-on-ichigos-palmif-his) so be sure to take a look at that too and shower her with love!

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.

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There’s a black mark on Ichigo’s palm.

He’s never spent too much time contemplating it. People attribute so many things to these tiny coloured markings that appear on their skin. They say it tells you the kind of person you are, the kind of person you’re going to be. They say the person you’re destined to be with — _your soulmate —_ has the exact same mark somewhere on their body. Because that’s what the definition of a soulmate is, isn’t it— one soul, two halves, split between two separate forms.  Alike in every respects. There are entire religions based around this concept, dating sites that cater exclusively to making sure you meet up with your other half. Psychics that claim they can read your entire future from that one mark alone.

Ichigo thinks, it’s just a goddamn _birthmark._

He hates all this destiny crap surrounding these marks. When Tatsuki had asked him at the age of thirteen what his mark looked like, he’d scowled and told her to shove off. His hand had clenched, reflexive, around the shape getting ever-clearer against his tanned skin. She’d _harrumphed,_ unperturbed, and informed him hers was the shape of a crimson eagle and that it clearly meant she was destined for greater things than him, if his mark was still the misshapen blob she remembers it being when he was nine. He’d responded that her mark looks more like a puddle of spew than the eagle she claimed it to be, and she’d thrown a well-aimed kick at his shoulder and the conversation had been dropped.

By the time he’s fifteen, the mark is well and truly etched onto his skin, no longer misshapen by any stretch of the imagination. Still, he refuses to pay too much attention to it, refuses to try to analyse the shape it’s settled into. It’s all bullshit, anyway. If he squints, he thinks you could almost mistake it for an ink-black sun — see? _Bullshit._ There was only one sun in his life, and she’d set six years ago and taken all the light in his family with her. His mother was the sun, the one holding them all together with her gravity; not him. And if his _soulmate_ is anything like him, if they, too, are represented by a dark black sun mark somewhere on their body, then he wants nothing to do with them. He wants nothing to do with _himself,_ most days.

So when Keigo asks, exuberant, innocent, what his mark is, Ichigo looks him straight in the eye and tells him he doesn’t believe in _destiny._

 

*

 

And he doesn’t. Not even now, after she comes barreling into his life and gifts him a power he thought he’d never have; after she fits into the cracks and crevices in his life so seamlessly he forgets there were cracks there in the first place. She sleeps in his closet and steals his food and charms all his friends (and he has those, he notices all of a sudden; he has a lot more of those than he had last reckoned, when had they all got there—?), and Ichigo would like to say he’s irritated, only he isn’t. She’s so different to him, and he can’t seem to get a handle on her the way he has with other people in his life. But still, somehow— they’re the same when it comes to the things that matter. He won’t put that down to something as illusory as _destiny,_ though, won’t do their bond that disservice; what he has with Rukia is _real,_ built on tangible things like shared grief and mutual irritation.

He catches a glimpse of her mark once, just once— soon after his fight with Grand Fisher. It’s a windy day, and her uniform skirt rides high on her legs for a single instant. It’s not like he was _looking,_ he swears, but he doesn’t have time to turn away before the flash of bare skin has him rooted to the spot, turning bright red. She notices, of course she does, and smooths her skirt down, aiming a sharp elbow into his ribs. He doubles over and pretends to have not seen the shape on her upper thigh, almost imperceptible against her paleness. A white crescent moon, a mark that couldn’t have been more different to his own than night and day.

It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, and he tells himself the small twinge of emotion that goes through him at this revelation isn’t disappointment at all.

 

*

 

“Of course shinigami are aware of the concept,” she says brusquely when the subject comes up, after a long day of Keigo trying to wheedle the location and shape of her mark out of Rukia. It’s considered— if not rude, then a little _gauche_ to ask it of people, but that’s never stopped Keigo before. She perches on his desk and swings her legs to and fro; her dress is getting rucked up around her thighs and Ichigo bites back a caustic remark. It’s better than her sitting on his bed, at least. “We were all human once, too. We just don’t put that much stock in it, is all.”

This surprises him more than he cares to admit. “Why?” he asks, careful to keep his eyes trained on his homework lest he seem too interested.

She snorts. “We are _soldiers,_ Ichigo. Love and partnership have no place in our lives. And besides, most of us have lived for hundreds of years, well beyond a single human lifespan, and have never managed to come across our so-called ‘other halves’. If they truly do exist and I was destined to spend the rest of my life together with them, you’d think the universe might have made it a _little_ easier to meet them, no?”

He sits up slowly. “That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, and he doesn’t miss the way her shoulders tense up the tiniest bit. “I said, do _you_ believe in all that soulmates crap associated with these marks?”

“Of course not, you fool,” she snaps, but something in her eyes are telling him yes, _yes._ Her fist bunches in the fabric of her dress, which has ridden up high enough that he thinks he’s almost going to see her mark again; but then she jumps off his desk in a fluid motion and her dress settles around her legs once more. She turns away from him and climbs into his closet. “Do _you?”_

She doesn’t know he’s seen her mark yet, but he knows she’s seen his; it was one of the drawbacks of having it in a more obvious place. As much as Ichigo doesn’t believe in the mythology surrounding these marks, a part of him is uncomfortable with the idea. It feels too much like wearing his heart on his sleeve to have it so visible, that people will see it and draw whatever conclusion they like about him through this insignificant blotch of pigment — not that his hair doesn’t already have the same effect. He thinks of this, of the fact that she knows their marks don’t match, and wonders whether she’ll think of it too when she hears his response. Wonders why it should matter at all.

“No,” he says, and his voice is firm. Behind the shut closet door, Rukia’s silent.

“... Good,” she replies after a while, and if Ichigo didn’t know any better, he’d say her voice was wavery, almost like she was crying. “Silly, human superstition, that’s all it is. Did you know you can fall in love with someone who doesn’t bear your mark?”

He didn’t, but staring at the closet door, fighting an odd urge to slam it open and demand if she was ok, Ichigo thinks he can understand how that might come to happen.

 

*

 

In hindsight, it’s obvious that not all the couples he sees around him are mark-matched. Human beings are frustratingly contrary creatures, and even if the marks _had_ been a surefire way of finding your romantic soulmate, he’s sure some people (like him) would have said bollocks to that. Tatsuki’s parents, for one, have slightly mismatched marks; Mrs. Arisawa’s is a lime-green leaf, while Mr. Arisawa’s is a viridian blade of grass. Still, Mrs. Arisawa laughs, casting her husband a fond smile, at least their marks were both plants; her sister with a flower mark had married a man with a pouncing tiger over his shoulder. They fought a fair bit, but despite everything, they were still together.

“And so are we,” she declares, plying them all with tea and biscuits as they get on with the study session they’d opened for Rukia’s benefit. “Don’t mind the people who tell you mark-matched coupling is your ultimate goal in life. Romance isn’t the be-all and end-all, and besides, it’s perfectly possible to be wildly in love with someone who doesn’t wear your mark at all.”

“Mom, will you stop being _gross?_ Nobody asked for your sweeping tale of romance with dad,” Tatsuki grumbles, but a good half of their group is listening raptly, hanging onto Mrs. Arisawa’s every word. Even Ishida, detached as he’s trying to appear, is clearly not concentrating as hard on his maths as he would have them believe. Inoue, Keigo and Chad have outright dropped their pens. Only Mizuiro and Rukia seem unperturbed, although maybe that’s the wrong word for Rukia, who is gripping her pencil so tight the tendons are standing out against her skin. Ichigo thinks it’s time to steer the conversation into safer waters.

“Man, how the hell are you supposed to solve this question? Did we learn this?” he complains loudly, throwing his pen down. Several heads turn in his direction, and Ishida mocks him a little for not grasping such a simple concept; it’s Inoue who bows her head over his worksheet and kindly points out the trick to the solution. He nods in gratitude and quickly fills the rest of the question out.

“I— it’s nothing, Kurosaki-kun!” Inoue trills, flashing him a hesitant smile, and he pauses, a little taken aback; he smiles back cautiously, and watches, completely nonplussed, as her cheeks become suffused with red so that the six-petaled flower mark on her cheek becomes very noticeable. The thought pops into his head, unbidden, that he’s sorry for her, to have her mark so prominently on display. But then again, it fits with the kind of person Inoue is; bright, loud, open in her affections for everybody. Flustered, she turns away from him, and once her head moves out of his line of sight he sees Rukia behind her, staring at him with a confused expression.

 _But you did that question just last night,_ he knows she’s thinking, and it’s true; he helped her with the very question he pretended not to know just then. He scowls, and hopes it’ll be enough to throw her off the scent.

It is, but not in the way he hoped it would; Rukia inclines her head the tiniest fraction, as though she’s _thanking_ him for what he did, before turning back to her work. Ichigo’s scowl deepens. He did nothing that was deserving of her thanks. It’s not like he moved the conversation along for _her_ ; he doesn’t like seeing her so obviously distressed, is all. She needs to be the annoying bitch that she is 95% of the time so he can cuss her out in his mind in peace.

He turns back to his own work, trying to drown out Mrs. Arisawa’s words ringing in his ears.

_It’s perfectly possible to be wildly in love with someone who doesn’t wear your mark at all._

He knew this already; a stupid fucking confirmation shouldn’t change anything—

and yet.

 

*

 

When they come for her, it’s when the moon in the sky resembles the moon on her thigh; a delicate sliver of a thing, barely visible against the inky darkness. Some cocky bastard with dark red hair that reminds Ichigo of old, bad blood and a cold one whose eyes give new meaning to the phrase _if looks could kill_ show up to take Rukia to her _execution,_ because, oh yeah, apparently lending her powers to a human being for any reason is a capital offence. Rukia, fucking _Rukia,_ throw-herself-in-front-of-a-hollow-for-a-stranger Rukia, as-if-I-would-do-anything-to-make-you-worry-about-me Rukia, _that_ Rukia, shuts down in their presence; goes cold and still and withdrawn like the glaciers he learned about in geography class. Something about that picture, her silent and sheet-white and scared against the backdrop of the pavement, strikes him as deeply, profoundly _wrong;_ Rukia shouldn’t be wearing an expression like that. Ever.

He takes up the sword that she has given him and thinks, finally, _finally_ , he’s going to be able to repay his debt to her, but before he can finish the red one off and get to the one with the cold, cold eyes, he falls.

At first he doesn’t quite understand what’s happened; his body spurts blood redder than the cocky bastard’s hair and then there’s the pain of it, belated, bringing him to his knees and further still. He collapses face-first onto the street, into a puddle of his own blood; Rukia screams _aniki_ and the red one slams her into a telephone pole, by the neck. Ichigo struggles to rise, but his limbs won’t heed him, and he’s on the verge of losing consciousness when the cold one ( _aniki,_ he was her brother, he was Rukia’s _brother_ ) steps in front of him and addresses Rukia for the first time.

“I see, Rukia. This boy… resembles _him_ a great deal.”

Ichigo’s hand shoots out to grab the hem of the cold one’s robes. “Who do I resemble? Don't talk about me like I’m already dead.”

The cold one stills, warns him to remove his hand if he wants to keep it, but Ichigo won't let go, _can't_ let go; every second he manages to keep him rooted there is another second Rukia stays by his side. And he will not cede her, not to someone who looks at her so coldly; he can take his _aniki_ and shove it. Brother or not, Rukia deserves better than someone who makes her look so uneasy in her own skin—

She kicks him.

She kicks him, and his hand falls to the ground; the impact of her foot, tiny as it is, stings like a bitch. She’s saying something, but Ichigo can’t make his brain parse the meaning from her words. His mind is filled with static, rising and rising like the tides; her eyes have gone cold just like her brother’s, and for the first time Ichigo thinks he can see the resemblance. But this is Rukia, _Rukia;_ Rukia who shared his space and lived under his skin for the past three months. It can’t end like this.

She turns her back to him, and Ichigo feels panic close his throat; he yells at her to stop, to look at him properly, but she won’t, she _won’t._ And if the last memory he ever has of her are those warm eyes gone cold, he won’t be able to stand it. _Look at me, **please.**_

She does, and he almost wishes she hadn’t. The tears on her face, like a premonition of rain, and Ichigo remembers being nine and helpless; wet with someone else’s blood and alive because of someone else’s sacrifice. He wants to reach out for her, because surely this time, he’ll be able to _protect_ ; but six years hasn’t made an iota of difference and he can only watch as she saves him again with her words and her actions, stepping beyond the gate to somewhere he can’t follow.

The last thing he sees before the paper doors slide shut punches all the air out of his lungs; a directive from the heavens as if to say _this is not your concern._ For a fleeting moment, the wind lifts the scarf from the cold one’s collarbones; there, etched onto milk-white skin, is a familiar mark.

A crescent moon.

The first drops of rain hit the pavement, and Ichigo drops his head to the ground and _screams._


	2. Accretion Disk (pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter titles include ‘Ishida Uryuu fails to catch a break’, ‘Universe declares Ishida Uryuu as Public Enemy Number 1′, or ‘That time that Good Luck Broke Up With Ishida Uryuu And Wrote a T-Swift-Esque Song About It’ (the last one courtesy of mizulily on tumblr).

 

.

_._

_._

Ichigo remembers the days following his mother’s death with a reluctant clarity. For someone who had been in a near catatonia for months, the memories seem burned into his neural circuits, and he can recall the most insignificant detail pertaining to that time period with painful precision. The cold air of the house, suddenly devoid of warmth. The quiet sobbing of his sisters, still too young to fully grasp the situation. The grim downward curve of his father’s lips. And the rain, always the rain, the sound of it on their tiled roof, the clammy feel of it trickling down his neck, the smell of it on the upturned dirt of his mother’s grave. Unending and relentless, bleaching the world a muted gray.

It’s different this time (and why the hell would he make the comparison anyway?, he thinks angrily, It’s not like anyone’s _died—_ yet). The sky is offensively blue. The clouds are unashamedly white. And the day passes in a sort of haze, where nothing seems quite real to him. He doesn’t remember how he got home, doesn’t remember the excuse he gave to his father and sisters. Couldn’t tell you if Maths came before History that day, or vice versa. The only thing he sees in his mind are Rukia’s eyes, hot then cold then full of tears, all because of him.

That, and her absence; there is a Rukia-shaped hole in the fabric of his world, one that only he seems to be able to perceive. This isn’t _dying_. This is being erased. Like she never existed— and Ichigo wonders which is worse, to be aware of the loss and mourn it your entire life or to be unaware that you’re missing something, but spared the pain. He thinks maybe that’s why he’s holding onto his memories of Rukia so tight, at the sacrifice of all other irrelevant details; there’s no-one left to remember her but him. The mark on his palm seems to burn, and he clenches his fist around it.

And why was he even bothering—? Sure, _execution_ , they said, _capital offence_ , they said, but _aniki,_ she said, _I’ve come to my senses,_ she said. Surely— surely, if he was her brother, he wouldn’t willingly let her die, no matter how cold his eyes were. And— and the mark on his collarbones, the crescent moon, so much like hers; he doesn’t want to know what the relationship is between them but maybe this was none of his business. The moon, linking the two of them together, and he, the sun; he had no place in the sky while the moon reigned. Did she even want his intervention? What if she was back where she belonged, with the person who bears her mark; what right did he have to drag her away from her world?

 _But you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?_ Inoue asks him, and it jolts Ichigo out of the prison of his own mind. _Families, worlds, that doesn’t matter. You’ll furrow your brow, pucker up your chin, and say there’s always a chance to change things as long as you’re alive._

Her eyes soften, and she adds: _at least, the Kurosaki-kun I know would say that._

Her words remind him of something he’d forgotten; an image flashes through his head, of Rukia and a juice box and something almost, almost like a smile on her face—

His hands curl into fists, and he stands up.

 _Thank you, Inoue,_ he says. She only smiles.

 _No worries, Kurosaki-kun,_ she says, _come back safe._

He nods at her, and walks away decisively; behind him, he does not see Inoue’s hands curl into fists of her own.

 _No,_ she mutters, _I’ll make **sure** you come back safe—_

 _—_ The first debris, pulled into orbit.

 

*

 

Their spectacular rescue plan goes wrong almost immediately; Ishida nearly _dies_ within the first five minutes, Inoue’s rikka unknowingly come within an inch of annihilation while taking on the Janitor of the Dangai, and then Ichigo himself almost gets beheaded by giant slabs of concrete wall falling from the sky. Not a promising track record given that they are barely ten minutes into the operation, but when their first opponent appears, swinging around two giant axes, Ichigo feels the hint of a grin curling his lips. It’s not like he didn’t know what he’d signed up for, and this, at least, was something expected; truth be told, he’d have been more worried if nobody appeared to block their path. He’s been raring to fight someone other than Sandal-Hat, to test how far his abilities will stretch against other opponents, so when axe-guy declares that nobody has been able to surpass him in the last 300 years, Ichigo tells his friends to stay back as he hacks a path through.

The axe-guy is easy enough, but the Captain they encounter within the walls is something else entirely; before Ichigo can even blink, he’s being pushed out of the Seireitei by the tip of the Captain’s blade, the man waving a jaunty little ‘bye-bye!’ at him as he sprawls on the ground. His friends gather round him, but he’s fine, if a little winded, and despite the setback this is the first opportunity they’ve had since the start of the mission to take a breather.

Maybe that’s why nobody noticed it earlier.

“I— Inoue-san?” Ishida’s voice is half-strangled and disbelieving as he stares at Inoue— or, more accurately, at the mark on her cheek. Ichigo gives her a cursory glance, then does a double-take; he’s not the most detail-oriented guy on the planet, no, but he could have _sworn_ Inoue’s mark was a…

“Your— your mark, Inoue, wasn’t it a six-petaled flower?” he asks, since Ishida looks like he’s temporarily lost the ability to speak; Inoue startles and puts a hand up to her face.

“Y— yeah, Kurosaki-kun! Why do you ask?”

“... Because,” he says slowly, as he fights the urge to open his palms and immediately check on his own mark, “because it’s not anymore. It’s— … it’s—”

“... a raindrop,” Ishida finishes for him, softly, and Inoue flames bright red and claps her hand over her cheek.

“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, _no._ ”

 

*

 

Inoue Orihime is not a deceitful person by nature. Subterfuge has never come easy to her; despite this, the paint disguising her mark has become like a second skin, so much so that she feels naked in its absence. She touches her cheek multiple times throughout the rest of the day, as if expecting it to feel different without the layers of make-up, but the skin beneath her fingertips is as smooth and unblemished as it has always felt. For some reason, this adds to her feeling of being off-kilter. Nothing seems different, and yet— now these three other people (and a cat) know more about her than anybody else bar Sora has in her lifetime.

Despite her unease, the opportunity to explain the deception behind her mark does not present itself until well after nightfall. The abrupt reveal of its duplicity had been interrupted by the parakeet boy, Yuuichi Shibata, and then there’d been Jidanbo’s arm to reattach; not to mention the weird gang of boar riders that had barged in, picked a fight with Kurosaki-kun and left as quickly as they’d arrived. Come evening, Orihime herself has nearly forgotten about the mark; until she catches Kurosaki-kun throw a furtive look in her direction, before clenching his fists so tight the tendons stand out.

It occurs to her that he hasn’t looked at his palm all day.

“I’m sorry!” she blurts out, and three people (and a cat) turn to look at her. “I— I didn’t mean to hide it from everyone— well, I mean, _sort of,_ but not because I don’t trust you all, or anything. I—I can explain—”

“It’s alright,” someone interrupts her rather faintly, and Orihime’s startled to find out that it’s Ishida-kun. “It’s— it’s fine, Inoue-san. We won’t ask. It’s your business— not any of ours. Really, you don’t have to explain yourself to us— we’ll keep our mouths shut about this when we get back to the Gensei, too, if you’d like—”

Kurosaki-kun looks like he has something different to say, so Orihime heads him off with a bright smile. “You’re very kind, Ishida-kun. Thank you. But— but it’s ok. It’s not really some huge, important secret. And I trust you all. It’s— it’s actually a little silly, when I think about it—”

“I highly doubt that,” Ishida-kun mutters. Kurosaki-kun shushes him and gestures for her to continue. He still hasn’t unclenched his fists, she notices— any tighter, and he’ll start drawing blood. She touches the raindrop on her cheek and contemplates how best to start the explanation.

“Well, you see, my mark started settling very early— when I was around eight or nine. Sora-nii— my older brother— told me it might be best for me to start hiding the mark with make-up or something once it settled. He was worried that someone might— I don’t know, use it against me or something? He was looking out for me. But that isn’t why I started covering it up, not really.”

Kurosaki-kun interrupts. “So— so your mark is originally—”

“A raindrop, yes.”

“And you were just covering it up with—”

“Make-up, yeah.”

“Oh.” Something in Kurosaki-kun seems to give, and he lets out a long, shaky breath, slumping a little. He laughs, loosening his fists to run a hand through his hair. “I— of course. So— so it wasn’t like— your mark has changed, or anything—”

“Of course not. I— I don’t think soulmate marks are _supposed_ to change, Kurosaki-kun. Kind of defeats the idea of a _soulmate,_ doesn’t it? The whole cosmic, predestined thing about it. If your soulmate could _change_ , wouldn't that make you two not-soulmates in the first place?”

“Yeah— yeah, of course. Stupid of me to think that might happen— uh, yeah.” He’s looking at his mark now, still stark black against the skin of his palm, with an odd expression; something clicks in the back of her mind, and Orihime wonders if he’d been _hoping_ for his mark to have changed— or if he’d been _afraid_ of it.

For the first time since she’s met her, Orihime wonders what Kuchiki-san’s mark looks like.

“Kurosaki-kun, you—” she begins, but Ichigo snaps his hand shut again and looks up with a smile.

“Sorry for interrupting, Inoue, where were you in the story?”

Orihime recognises it as the dismissal it is meant to be; she drops her line of enquiry with a smile as fake as his.  

“Oh— oh, right! Yeah. So, Sora-nii thought I should cover the mark up, and it _was_ kind of exciting, like I was putting on a disguise and being a spy, you know? But that isn’t the full reason. I— I mean, soulmate marks just— they just take all the _romance_ out of the thing, don’t they?”

She looks around the room for support and finds only three blank faces (and a cat) staring back at her.

“I— uh— what?”

She sighs. “I told you it was a bit silly. But I mean, when I meet my soulmate, I don't want them to— to _know_ they're my soulmate right off the bat. I— I don't want the realisation to be so… mundane. Just a simple ‘oh, your mark is identical to mine’ and that's it? I mean— I guess I almost, I wanted to test that fate? If they're my soulmate, if we're really, truly meant to be, they’ll still fall in love with me even if they thought our marks were different. I guess— if, if I ever meet my soulmate... I just want to know that it's _real.”_

The last word is spoken into complete silence; Orihime squirms. She's never been good with silences, especially ones centered around her. “I— I mean! That's just assuming if I ever met my soulmate. I— not that I think that's the most important thing here or whatever, it's just in case, right? Besides, I— I'm not even sure now if I want to meet my soulmate. I mean, obviously that would be nice, but— but, you can fall in love with people with marks that are different to yours. I understand that now. So— so, this is more force of habit than anything else—”

“Yeah.” Kurosaki-kun stands up; he's not looking her way. “Yeah. Of course. The— the marks are kind of bollocks, anyway. Uh, thanks for the story, Inoue. We should— we should all get some rest, it's getting late—”

She jumps up; indeed, the moon has fully risen now, and everything around them is quiet save the crickets.  “Oh! Right! Of course! Sorry, I was keeping everyone up—”

There's a general rumble of dissent as everyone hastens to assure her that isn't the case, and then a general kerfuffle as everyone shifts to get ready for bed; Kurosaki-kun has left the room, mumbling something about getting some air.  He hasn't looked at her properly since she's started her story, and Orihime doesn't know if she’s glad he's seen her real mark or if she wishes he'd never found out. Not that it changes anything either way, she and Kurosaki-kun were mismatched to begin with—

“Don't mind him,” a low voice mutters beside her, and Orihime turns to see Ishida-kun holding out a pillow. “Here, Inoue-san— you can sleep in the other room—”

She takes the pillow. “Did it look like I was minding Kurosaki-kun?” she asks.  

He flushes; she doesn't know why, when he's the one who’s caught her spacing out. “He's— he's just got a lot on his mind. Kuchiki-san—”

 _Ah._ Orihime feels a little bolt of guilt go through her stomach. She'd almost forgotten about Kuchiki-san, the reason they were all here in the first place. This wasn't the time for her feelings about soulmates and romance, not when Kuchiki-san’s life hung in the balance— but still she cannot help the question that drops from her lips, not when Kurosaki-kun looks like _that_ and he’s been clenching his fists all day and several things are falling into place with heartbreaking clarity.  

“Do you— have you ever seen Kuchiki-san’s mark, Ishida-kun?”

Ishida-kun looks like he expected this question; he rubs his chin ruefully.

“No,” he admits. “But I could probably make a guess, if I had to.”

She’s quiet for a moment, before she lets out a small, watery laugh. “You too? Me too, Ishida-kun. Me too.”

If she had to guess, she would bet that Kuchiki-san’s mark, wherever it may be, was black and shaped like a blazing sun—

“But, you know, Inoue-san, people have fallen in love with people who don't bear their marks before—”

“I know, I know.” She smiles at him; Ishida-kun was always so kind. She didn't know why people thought he was unfriendly. He was the kindest person she'd ever met. “It’s— it’s ok, Ishida-kun. Really. But thank you.”

“You're— you’re welcome,” he mutters. She smiles at him one last time before turning away; she bumps into Kurosaki-kun on the way out, and he looks much more relaxed, letting her pass with a nod. She closes the door behind her, and looks at the stars.

The skies are clear today; not an inkling of rain on the horizon. That was ok. Orihime loves the rain, but she loves the sun much, much more. She could wait for the rain. She was good at waiting.

Sometimes, it feels like she'll spend her entire life doing exactly that.

 

*

 

In the Senzaikyuu, Kuchiki Rukia stares at the same sky; the little sliver of it that is afforded by the high window is dark and uniform. She cannot see the moon, but she knows it is risen. There is a long slice of silver-white on her jail cell floor, the only source of light; she places her hand in its path, and watches it bleach her out to a ghostly consistency. She'd always considered the moon to be her element, but tonight even the moon is telling her that she _does not belong in this world._

Things have been quiet since she’s been moved; she’s not sure if that’s because there’s genuinely nothing happening or if it’s because she’s surrounded by sekkisekki. She replays Renji’s words in her mind—

_A boy with orange hair, and a sword as long as his height._

“.... please.”

There is no-one to hear her but the moon. Rukia prays anyway.

“Please, _please_ — don’t let it have been Ichigo—”

_Don't let me be the cause of another friend’s death—_

“— I’m not worth bleeding and dying for, _please_ — Kaien-dono—!”

 

*

 

As these situations go, things could certainly be a lot worse; Ishida Uryuu knows he lucked out. For a heist in enemy territory, it’s been relatively smooth sailing so far. There are worse people to have watching your back than Inoue-san, who has reasonable amounts of reiatsu, and also knows how to heal. They’d been able to hide from the enemies they’d encountered so far, and even had they been forced to fight, he was fairly confident they would have come out victorious. They were making good time through the Seireitei, and if their luck continued to hold out at this rate, they’d be at the Senzaikyuu by nightfall.

As these situations go, things could not _possibly_ be worse for him.

Of course, of all the people he got stranded with, it had to be Inoue-san. When had the universe ever been interested in cutting him a break? He chances a glance at her, humming absently and walking a few steps behind him, and the raindrop mark on her cheek seems to glow like a beacon against her warm skin. Cool blue. Quincy reiatsu blue—

So, yesterday _hadn’t_ been a fever dream.

The universe really, _truly_ was not interested in cutting him a break.

There hadn’t been much time to dwell on the events of last night; after all, they’d been woken at the crack of dawn to be launched out of a cannon, and then, in true Kurosaki fashion, Ichigo had wrecked their entry by _being too strong._ Precocious to the last, in all things— but at least, if Inoue-san had landed with him, she’d have been guaranteed to be safe. Instead, Kurosaki and Inoue-san had spread out across the sky, straining to reach each other in some sort of perverse Tanabata recreation, before being torn apart by the currents of reiatsu and crash-landing with different people respectively. Ganjuu-san, and—

“Ishida-kun, is there something on my face?”

Uryuu starts. “No— not at all—”

Something seems to dawn in Inoue-san’s mind. Her face splits into a smile of comprehension.

“Oh! Stupid question, ha ha. I guess you’re still not used to my new mark—”

If understatements were ever graded, that one would get top marks without even trying. _Still not used to it_ was certainly one way of putting it. Uryuu was actually thinking something more along the lines of _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SHJNJHAJN,JDFMLKSDJOENJFDS WHUEJRRKWNSA HHHHHHHHHHH !!!!!!!!!!!!$#%%!$%@1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!,_ but sure, he could work with _still not used to it._  

“— understand if it's weird for you, I've been covering up my mark for so long that even _I_ think it’s a flower sometimes. Like this one time, I met a girl who had the exact same flower mark as the one I painted on my cheek—”

Uryuu draws a sharp breath. Oh, god, please tell him they were _not_ about to delve into the subject of matching marks—

“— luckily she didn't believe in the whole soulmates thing, but still, haha. I freaked out a good few hours about the fact that I’d met my _soulmate_ and she didn't seem to have any interest in me—”

He's smiling and nodding along politely, but inside, Ishida Uryuu is screaming. “How— how positively awful—”

“I know, right? Imagine meeting your soulmate only to find out that— that they don't believe in the marks or that they don't have any interest in you or whatever—”

“I can't even fathom it,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“— I wonder if there's someone out there with a raindrop mark, too.” Inoue-san says, wistful all of a sudden, and Uryuu’s glasses almost fall off his face.

“That— that is—”

“I mean, there _must_ be, right? Unless— unless I'm one of those people who just— who don't have a soulmate. Do those exist? I wonder. What do you think, Ishida-kun?”

“I— I, uh— I think it's definitely a possibility that there might be someone out there with a raindrop mark—”

“— but, you know,” she continues softly, a melancholy look on her face, “do you think it might be best for them if they never meet me?”

He's thrown by this question. “S— sorry? Why— why do you think—”

“Well.” She shrugs, and pulls a mock-angry face that, even through his unbroken unending internal screaming, Uryuu is amused to recognise as Kurosaki. “I mean. I _do_ believe in the soulmates thing, and I suppose if I were to ever meet my soulmate, I’d fall in love with them. But right now, I— right now, there's Kurosaki-kun and— I guess I don't want this feeling erased quite yet? It— it may not be mark-matched but I want this feeling to _mean_ something, Ishida-kun. And… it's a little cruel to _do_ that to my soulmate. To— to make them sit through me loving someone else— although they might be the kind of person who doesn't believe in soulmates, haha. Then I'd be worrying for nothing. But do you see where I'm coming from? Do you think— do you think that whoever has that raindrop mark will be better off not knowing me at all?”

There are a million potential replies to this question teeming inside Uryuu’s mind; but for now, he decides to go with the simplest (and truest) option of them all.

“Not at all,” he tells her, low and sincere; “I think— I think anyone would be lucky to know you, Inoue-san, mark-matched or not. I’m sure your— your _soulmate—_ wherever they are— will feel the same, too.”

Inoue-san looks at him with the strangest expression after that, and Uryuu wonders if he was too obvious, a fear which is confirmed with the next question out of her mouth.

“Ishida-kun, you know, I don't think I've asked— if you don't mind me asking— …..what shape is your—”

She doesn't get to finish; a sword cleaves through the air where she'd been standing moments prior, and Uryuu is in motion faster than he'd ever believed possible. Adrenaline roars in his ears. Inoue-san is still mouthing the tail end of her last word; it trails off into nothing as his hand tightens around her shoulder.

_Close. Far too close._

“I missed…?” her assailant mumbles, straightening up, and Uryuu casts his senses out, spirit particles already gathering around himself and Inoue-san.

“Ishida-kun,” she breathes.

“Yeah. Sorry, Inoue-san, I cut you off.”

“No, that’s not— it doesn’t matter,” she says, and they both watch their attacker draw a sword and boom something about being remorseful.

“Of course it matters. But for now, we’ll have to focus on him.” He jabs his chin at the opponent, who has started to count to ten; Inoue-san nods.

“FIVE! SIX! SEVEN—”

“Oh, and to answer your question—”

A bow takes shape around Uryuu’s hands, ghostly and flickering.

“— it’s an arrow.”

“...? What is, Ishida-kun?”

“— EIGHT! NINE—”

“My mark.” He draws on his surroundings fully, and the bow solidifies; the glowing blue lights them up from below, making her raindrop seem even more prominent than before. “My soulmate mark.”

“— TEN! THAT’S IT, RYOKA, I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU ANY MORE TIME TO REPENT! HAVE YOU BEEN PROPERLY REMORSEFUL FOR YOUR SINS THUS FAR?”

Uryuu doesn’t know much about remorse, but now, at least, he’s got one sin to confess:

“It’s an arrow,” he tells her, and the lie burns like holy fire all the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a pretty ish heavy chapter, but fear not, dear readers, Memories in the Rain Rukiaside is coming up and you KNOW that shit is going to be ir cranked up to 200%. Unfortunately, this is the last of my writing buffer, so who knows when the next chapter will be uploaded :'/ I'll do my best to make the wait short, but schoolwork (and possibly Cyclical) takes priority!
> 
> I hope you'll stick around anyway, because I DO plan on finishing this, though :')


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